


Go Down Gamblin'

by zelempa



Category: The Sentinel
Genre: Gambling, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-05-25
Updated: 2008-05-25
Packaged: 2017-10-05 12:36:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,913
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/41780
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zelempa/pseuds/zelempa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Blair shuffled the deck back together. "How do you know so much about gambling, anyway, Mr. Law Enforcement?"</p><p>"Hey, I worked vice. Believe me, Chief. You can't fight it. The house always wins."</p><p>"We'll see about that." Blair held Jim's gaze with a defiant look while he surreptitiously snagged a slice of bacon from the done pile.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Go Down Gamblin'

STAY

Jim had stopped complaining about the unavoidable little noises that wrenched him from sleep whenever he and Blair kept different hours--in this case, playing cards being dealt out. Still, Blair had to suppress a flash of guilt when he looked up from the coffee table to see Jim shuffling down the stairs in his ratty bathrobe.

"Thought you had a paper due." Ah, there was the problem--Jim had been expecting typing background noise, not cardboard-moving background noise.

"Yeah, tonight," said Blair, waving his hand at the far-distant future. "So I've decided to become unbeatable at blackjack."

Jim snorted. "Can't be done." He took a sip from Blair's coffee mug, so at least there was evidence he wanted to be awake. "What the hell is this?"

"Green tea. It's good for you, it's an anticarcinogen. Listen, blackjack is really all just basic arithmetic. My cousin Robert taught me this great system. You assign a positive or negative value to each card--"

"Card-counting, Chief? Low, even for you."

Jim headed for the kitchen, undoubtedly to put on some real man's coffee, and Blair followed, insisting, "It's not counting cards, it's--okay, it's counting cards, but that's where the skill comes in, man. I mean, that's what separates the winners from the losers."

"Simon will kick you out of the benefit in two seconds flat."

"He'll never figure it out. It's not like I count out loud. Look, I'll show you. Try and beat me."

Blair executed a series of showy shuffling tricks, but Jim was too busy throwing bacon on a pan to give him due attention. Jim was hard to beat and easy to join, so Blair got to work buttering toast while Jim brewed the coffee. He'd adopted Blair's practice of spicing the coffee with cardamom and honey. The loft smelled delicious.

"Okay, now deal." Blair took the bacon fork from Jim's hand and traded him the deck. They threw down and played right there on the kitchen counter, Blair crunching toast, Jim wincing and wiping butter off the backs of the cards. Blair rapidly lost the first three hands out of four.

"Gotta tell you, I'm not terribly impressed so far," said Jim.

"Stay with me. These things take time to unfold."

"Oh, time to unfold, I see." Jim was making fun, but he was in a good mood; he smiled instead of rolling his eyes, and he kept playing.

Blair pulled ahead after that, making more daring choices once he had an idea what was left in the deck. Jim must have felt left out, because he followed suit, and won round nine by hitting on what turned out to be an ace and six.

"Hey, you're the dealer," Blair reminded him.

"Yeah, so? Dealer hits on soft seventeens."

"No way. You're making that up."

"That's how they play it in Vegas, kiddo." Jim swatted Blair's forehead with the remainder of the deck. There was a weird moment, then, where it looked like he might do something else--brush Blair's hair out of his eyes, maybe, or lean forward, and... But no, that was just residual wishful thinking. Blair made a goofy face and snatched the cards back. He'd got it through his head a long time ago that he wasn't going to try and kiss Jim and Jim was sure as hell never going to try and kiss him, so the only way to control these moments of tension was just to end them. (Tension only he registered. Jim may have had super senses, but Blair was the one with the overactive imagination.)

Sure enough, Jim returned to the skillet without another glance.

Blair shuffled the deck back together. "How do you know so much about gambling, anyway, Mr. Law Enforcement?"

"Hey, I worked vice. And I've been dragged to this casino night thing every year they've had it. Believe me, Chief. You can't fight it. The house always wins."

"We'll see about that." Blair held Jim's gaze with a defiant look while he surreptitiously snagged a slice of bacon from the done pile.

*

Blair hummed a little tune as he brushed his hair back into a neat ponytail, letting the steamy post-shower air work its magic on the wrinkles in his dress shirt. No reason Jim shouldn't have desirable arm candy, for appearance's sake.

The first time they'd gone to one of these things together--some awards banquet or something, he couldn't remember what it was, now--Blair had himself completely convinced there was no possible way for the evening to end without sex. There they were, dressed up, standing side-by-side all night, sipping wine and chatting. Have you met my partner, Blair Sandburg? Oh, it's good to finally meet you, Jim has told me so much. They arrived together, and at the end of the night, they left together. Blair could have left with someone else, _but he didn't_. It couldn't be more obvious, right?

He'd been testing the waters (frigid) and psyching himself up for weeks. In retrospect Jim hadn't really been sending him any signals--or at least, he'd sent at least as many red lights as green--but he'd let him move in! And he wasn't letting him leave! Blair got infinite mileage out of that. They'd quickly fallen into a domestic routine, like they were married. Surely this was the lowest-risk pickup he'd ever attempt. For god's sake, Blair knew Jim's preferred soap brand! He could pass a green card test for this guy, no problem.

The banquet was just icing on the wedding cake. He worked himself up so that he really believed Jim would say something that night, make a move himself. When they got up to the loft Jim hung up his jacket and went immediately to the bathroom to brush his teeth. Blair stood around in the living room, thinking about Jim's minty-fresh mouth, but when Jim emerged he just said "Night" and headed for the stairs.

"Hey." Blair jogged to meet him at the edge of the stairs and grabbed his arm.

"What?"

"Um." Stupidly Blair had let him go and now he could think of no pretext for touching him again.

"What is it?" Jim asked again.

It was ridiculous to be this nervous about such a sure thing. He should just kiss him. Just grab him and kiss him. It would be romantic. He'd had no trouble making smooth moves like that on women he hardly knew, much bigger gambles, and it generally paid off. He still couldn't bring himself to make the leap, though, so he made a baby step, and said, "So--I'm not crazy, right? This was a date."

"What was a date? With who?" Jim was honestly confused.

Blair's heart sank immediately into the Earth's core where the enormous pressure of condensed despair shattered it into a thousand blackened shards.

There didn't seem to be much point in continuing the conversation, but Jim was intrigued, now, and he had to say something. "I just thought," he began, giving his mind time to spin an elaborate story about how he thought he was on a date with Sara-- Wanda-- Jane! Jane from IA! He'd talked to her for like thirty minutes. But she was married, so why would he think--oh, Jim wouldn't question it.

Jim was smarter than he thought, though, because before Blair could begin his tall tale, he got it. His face hardened. "You think I'm..." He wouldn't even say it.

It was the opposite of a flirtatious tone and Blair knew he shouldn't say "I hoped," but it was all he could think of, so he said nothing, and braced himself for the fallout.

"I'm not," said Jim. "My marriage--marriages end all the time."

Huh, wait. Jim was defending himself, not accusing Blair. Suddenly there was a ray of hope. Not that the night could be salvaged as such, but that, maybe, if Blair played his cards right, this conversation wouldn't end with a tearful midnight call to U-Haul.

"Just joking. I'm sorry. I didn't realize it was a thing for you," said Blair lightly. Man, he was a manipulative bastard. "Forget I said it. G'night."

Jim duly forgot he'd said it, and why shouldn't he? For him it had just been an offhand comment, a joke misunderstood. The living arrangement wasn't a hint. Jim really was just in it for the live-in sensory help, the all-hours case brainstorming, and, sure, the companionship. Celibate companionship. Despite Jim's lone-wolf bravado he really did prefer to be married--as long as it was a marriage that didn't involve sex, intimacy, or conflicting opinions about furniture placement. Blair--well, Blair genuinely didn't care about the _furniture_... It was a shame, because Jim was beautiful, and Blair happened to know (informed by too-close quarters) he had a gorgeous cock.

But Blair had picked himself up, dusted himself off, and filed away his fantasies about Jim (a) bending over for him or (b) calling him "honey" (hey, he was a romantic) under "Never Gonna Happen." Sometimes he thought, jadedly, that he had the best possible compromise now: he could go, openly and guiltlessly, right from Jim's dinner table to a pretty lady's bed. His Jim-lust had in no way diminished his wanderlust, and he knew from his (admittedly scant) experience with multi-week girlfriends that a real relationship wouldn't change that.

Still, he couldn't help thinking, every once in awhile--like when he strolled out into the living room to find Jim in his best James Bond finery--that it was a damn shame.

As if he knew what was on Blair's mind and had decided to mess with him, Jim actually looked impressed when he looked up. He broke into a smile, and shook his head. "You're aging backwards. Next week you'll be nine."

"Is that a compliment?" Blair asked, adding a saucy lilt to his voice. Flirting with Jim was totally pointless, but he'd come to take a kind of satisfaction in the pure act of flirting, without expecting any future return. Kind of a Zen thing.

If anything, he expected Jim to undercut him with a schoolyard taunt of some kind. Tonight, though, he said, "Yeah. You look good."

"Sure, sure," said Blair, cuffing him. "You know you don't have anything to worry about. The ladies love a man in uniform, in a suit."

"I'm not looking to meet any ladies."

That, too, would have thrown him for a loop awhile back. "Me neither," he might have said then, trying to push it. "I've sworn off women. You know? They're nothing but trouble. I've got everything I need right here." And he'd look at Jim expectantly, and Jim would roll his eyes and say "Good luck with that, Lothario."

But that way madness lay, pretty much, so he announced, "I am, man. I am officially on the prowl."

Jim just looked at him for a moment, then gave him this enigmatic smile, the kind of I-know-something-you-don't-know smile Blair used to assume meant "If only you knew the heat and intensity of the flames of passion that consume my soul," but which usually meant something more like "That lab tech you jilted plans to burn your eyebrows off. Again."

Just ignore it, Blair told himself. He knows not what he does.

*

As Jim had predicted, Simon, playing dealer, accused Blair of card-counting, but as Blair predicted, he couldn't prove it. Not until he overheard Blair explaining his system to a pathetically unlucky girl named Trudy, and banned them both from the tables. They laughed like naughty teenagers, lost some money at craps to show their hearts were in the right place, and went outside to drink under the stars. Trudy quickly began spilling her troubles. She was also unlucky in love.

"It's just so hard, getting over someone," she said, pulling out her cell phone to look at the display. She'd been doing that periodically all night, as if she might have inadvertently lost her sense of hearing and missed a call at some point during the night. "I mean, I know things weren't always sunshine and roses with Jason. He was late for our dates. I touched his comic books without gloves on, and he didn't like that. And then I got so mad at him sometimes, and I don't even know why."

"Maybe it was a good thing you broke up," Blair suggested. _He_ was getting a little mad at Jason, frankly.

"I guess," said Trudy morosely. "I just--I was sure he was the one. I mean, I really thought we had a good shot, you know?"

"You want to know my secret?" Blair leaned closer, conspiratorial, and said, "Lots and lots of rebounds."

Trudy laughed.

"I'm serious," said Blair. "It helps."

"Maybe you're onto something," Trudy smiled.

Green light, go, go, go. Blair leaned in.

"Sandburg."

Light from inside flooded over them. Blair looked up, annoyed. Jim was silhouetted in the doorway. "Ready to go?"

"I thought I'd give Trudy a ride home," said Blair significantly. "If you want to go with Simon or someone."

"What are you talking about? We're going to the same place."

Here was a delicate situation. Trudy was standing right there, so a sly "Not if I can help it" and any and all accompanying sexy-sexy gestures might seem a tad crass.

Trudy was unhelpful. "I have it covered, really. You don't need to worry about me."

"See? She's fine. Come on."

"Hold on." Blair smiled at Trudy and approached Jim to huddle and confer.

"I'm trying to work something here, Jim," he gritted.

Jim saw his knit brow and raised him an annoyed frown. "I need you at home tonight, all right?"

Oh. _Oh._ Blair one-eightied straight to concern. "Is it your senses? What's wrong?"

"Let's talk about it at home, okay?"

Blair made his apologies to Trudy. He said something vague about maybe swinging by later if he got through with Jim's thing quickly, but he didn't think he really would. Jim's problems tended to expand to fill all Blair's available time and attention.

There was the real reason the friendship had made it, even through unrequited love. When there were puzzles to solve, when Team Jim-and-Blair was on the case--tracking down a criminal, a disturbance in the senses, or in one memorable case, a box of extra-gentle lotion tissues that eluded them across three counties--nothing else mattered.

*

As soon as they crossed the threshold into the loft, Jim started acting wacky. Blair had never seen him so... bouncy. He looked around for a notebook, but Jim intercepted him, sat him down on the couch, told him not to move, and lit a fire in record time. He left the matches on the coffee table. Tonight Blair was allowed to light the infamously hated vanilla candle. Blair stared, wondering if Jim had lost his mind, or maybe his sense of smell, but no, it must be more of a one-night-only, special-occasion sacrifice kind of thing. Jim was pulling a bottle of champagne from the semi-hidden cabinet Blair had agreed to pretend not to know about for Christmukkah purposes.

"Didn't you buy that for Stephen's wedding?"

"I lied," said Jim proudly. "He's not even getting remarried."

"Okay..." Blair was sure his smile screamed "I am humoring you, crazy man!" "Then what..." Sudden horrible thought. "_You're_ not getting remarried, are you?"

"Hm. Funny."

Blair withheld judgment, unsure whether Jim meant "Funny" as in "Ludicrous" or "Funny" as in "Funny you should ask, because I was hoping you would be my best man (no strippers)." "I'm not looking for any ladies," he'd said, but yikes, who did he already have?

Jim was standing there by the couch, shifting from foot to foot, holding two glasses of champagne, and finally he just handed one to Blair and put one on the table and crouched down, looking for something in his pocket. "So I got this--it doesn't mean--well, I don't know. I just, here."

He held out a hand. Confused as he was, Blair knew enough to hold out his palm. Warm, heavy metal. Blair looked down into his hand. A ring, the simple kind Blair sometimes liked to wear--a thick silver-colored band widening into a diamond shape.

Blair's first thought was that he had found it at a crime scene or something. "What is this?"

There was that smile. "This time," Jim said, "I guess you'd say it's a date."

 

HIT

Blair was across the room before he decided to get up and start pacing. "Okay, so, so," he found himself chirping. "I need you to tell me exactly what you think you're doing, what is going through your head, and what parallel universe we are in right now."

Jim stood, but kept his distance. He opened his mouth, but there was a moment before he said, carefully, "I'm sorry. I thought we were on the same page." He blinked. "Guess I was wrong."

Jim thought they were on the same page. Jim thought--what? Blair was having serious trouble sorting out reality from fantasy, facts from interpretation. It wouldn't be the first time he'd been so wrapped up in Hypothetical Fantasy Gay Jim (bendable! posable!) that he'd completely misunderstood something Jim said or did. (The "You look hot" incident of '96 sprang to mind.) But Jim was practically on bended knee here, offering him a _ring_ with a _diamond_, and--shit, seriously? He hadn't made the connection immediately because it was a seven-of-diamonds kind of diamond and not a De Beers, girl's-best-friend, blood-sweat-and-tears-of-South-African-slave-miners kind of diamond, but still. Diamond freaking ring. He was really going to need to have the just-friends reading of this explained to him, because he was not seeing it.

Somewhere, as if from a long distance away, Jim was speaking again, his voice gentle. "Okay. Okay. Take your time. Just think about it, is all I'm asking. It's okay if you're not ready. It took me awhile, too."

"W--wait, what?" Blair demanded. "Not _ready_? That's funny, Jim, that really is!"

Jim frowned. "Am I missing something?"

"I'll say! Same page. Man! Volume one, chapter one, 'Once upon a time there in the land of Cascade lived a superhero and a plucky anthropologist,' that's the page you're on!" Blair could not fathom why he was yelling at Jim. Here the guy was, offering him everything he'd ever wanted, and the best he could do was start shouting at him?

But the words just kept pouring out of him without his foreknowledge or consent. "I mean, _now_ you get the message? You just decided to wait until I gave up? It's not like I wasn't sending out signals! I was like," and here Blair made a wild hand motion to illustrate the number and intensity of signals he had sent out. "I thought you were shutting me down! I didn't realize you were gonna turn out to be, you know, that theoretical alien race that only picks up transmissions from Earth four hundred million years in the future, long after the original senders are dead and gone and the planet has returned to a verdant forest untroubled by the human scourge!" Okay, that settled it: he was seriously freaking out here.

Jim watched him with the look of displeased interest he usually reserved for confessing criminals. When he'd confirmed by the passage of time that it was his turn to speak, he said, "I guess I didn't realize that was going on."

"Oh, sure, that's fine. Don't mind me. I only live here," Blair snapped peevishly. Okay, what the fuck?

"It's not so easy for me," said Jim. He sounded accusing, and Blair felt a flash of rage.

"Hey, take your time, do your thing," said Blair coolly. "Vive la difference and all. But you can't expect me to wait around as seasons change and empires rise and fall and baby deers get their antlers, and then hop to when it fits your schedule!"

Jim examined Blair critically, and then his expression wavered. "This is because I took you by surprise," he ventured. "I thought you'd like it."

"Yeah, I probably would have," Blair agreed. "_Two years ago._ Listen, man, I'm sorry, but you missed your shot. That train has left the station." _What on this sweet earth are you doing?!_ Blair's brain screamed at him. _You unholy bastard_, his dick concurred.

Jim had that disgusted, I-don't-know-why-I-ever-married-you look that he got whenever Blair left the sugar uncovered so that it clumped, and Blair hated that look, so he muttered, "Just forget it," and turned to the door.

"So what, you're just walking?"

Blair grabbed his jacket and pushed the door open. "Well, you know, I'd wait two years, but Trudy probably wouldn't remember my name."

*

"Shit, shit, shit, I suck, I'm a complete suckhole," Blair jabbered under his breath, trying one wrong key after another in the door to the Volvo. Recalling that Jim could probably still hear him, he lapsed into silent self-abuse.

What the fuck had just happened? Jim had just offered him up everything he'd been longing and yearning for, tastefully presented on a silver platter. And Blair had flipped on him... for _taking too long_? "That train has left the station"--what the _hell_ was up with that? When had that happened? The train only had one passenger; it could goddamn wait until he was good and ready!

Blair finally managed to get into his car, and he fell gratefully into the seat, sighing deeply. The thing that made it so mystifying was that, when he thought about it, he honestly had no problem with the timing. Jim liked to take it slow with relationships, and with feelings in general. The fact that he hadn't rushed into things confirmed that he was in full possession of his faculties--it wasn't some weird Sentinel pheromone thing, and it wasn't a post-marriage rebound. He'd gotten there on his own, by his own volition. Blair hadn't been expecting him to get there at all, so it was just a complete bonus, a free gift from the universe.

Maybe that was the problem. He hadn't expected this. He wasn't prepared! How was he supposed to bring his A game? Jim wasn't going to cut him any slack because they were together. No, he'd be worse. Jim would hold him to an impossible standard. Would demand fidelity. Neatness. Good penmanship.

Oh, God, Trudy and Jason had been doomed by improper comic book handling. Blair had never even figured out which pieces of furniture required coasters and which didn't! Jim had told him a hundred times, but he had never paid attention!

If Jim hadn't managed to make it work with Carolyn, who was perfectly easy-going, what chance did Blair have? Whenever Blair asked what happened there, Jim just said something vague like, "We were better off as friends." Now, Jim and Blair were pretty damn good as friends; how exactly were they supposed to top that?

Who was going to be the top? Had Jim ever even been with a guy? Did he know what was involved? Was he really pretty much straight, and expecting Blair to consign himself to a semi-monastic existence? Or was he disillusioned with girls and expecting Blair to come in and rock his world? What if Jim found him a huge disappointment? What if Jim found him a _tiny_ disappointment?

Somehow in the two years in which he'd been ruminating on this relationship, none of this had ever come up. But he'd assumed, naturally enough, that he'd never get the chance to act on his daydreams, so he'd allowed them to become wildly fanciful. He prided himself on being a realist most of the time, but he'd built the fantasy relationship with Jim into this mystical, untouchable thing.

In his dreams, the sex was always fantastic, mind-blowing. There was never any mess or fuss; it never became boring or routine. They had an unreasonable number of simultaneous orgasms.

In his dreams he would come up behind Jim while he was reading a book or doing some paperwork and wrap his arms around him, and Jim would laugh and then turn around and pull him into his lap while Blair pretended to protest. They'd wrestle and swat at each other but somehow it would turn into kissing and cuddling. They'd make each other laugh and call each other by the stupid pet names they'd picked out for each other, Honey and Button or something, names they both knew were awful but which they secretly used semi-unironically. Jim never got annoyed, never wanted to be alone, never wanted to finish his goddamn book.

In his dreams, they would semi-surreptitiously brush hands under the desk at the station, and then send each other knowing, sidelong glances, and then maybe sneak out on break and get each other off in the men's room or the cab of the truck. They were never caught or reprimanded; Blair's tenuous observer status was never revoked, and Jim was never demoted or fired.

In his dreams, they were together until they died, coincidentally simultaneously, at the ripe old ages of one hundred and one hundred and twelve. They'd go in their sleep, natch, snuggled up (they still snuggled) in Jim's bed in the upstairs bedroom of the loft, which would be really valuable by then, so they'd have a nice nest egg to leave their future-technology test tube baby, Ryan Simon Incacha. They never broke up, never considered it. Jim never got fed up or claustrophobic; Blair never got distracted by some pretty girl, no, not for a moment. They never fought bitterly over little things, never fought bitterly over big things, never had a difference that couldn't be resolved with earnest "I love you"s and sex (cf. always mind-blowing).

In his dreams, they alternately saved each other's lives, their personal and spiritual bond deepening with every adventure. They made out in hospitals a lot. They worried about each other, of course, but never so much that they were unable to think coolly under pressure. They never made wrong decisions on account of each other. They never got there too late.

Blair knew then that he hadn't freaked out on Jim because of the timing of his offer. He'd freaked out because of the whole concept. He wanted the relationship the same way he wanted to win the lottery, or to become king of everything. In theory, it would be perfect. In practice, it would be a flaming train wreck.

*

Casino night was winding down, but Trudy was still there, still rocking the floor-length black gown, still periodically checking her phone. Without Blair's bad influence she had been allowed to return to the blackjack table. Blair stood back for a moment, just watching her. He couldn't see her cards but he could tell by her expression that she was losing, but she just kept playing, hand after hand. There was something to admire there. She played cards the way she loved. Too bad the odds were with the house.

But then, in love, modest wins weren't too hard to come by. If he played his hand right with Trudy, for example, he could probably get her into bed. All he'd have to do would be to apologize for running out on her, and risk looking like a bit of a fool.

Or he could still shoot the moon and make a play for Jim. The win would be bigger, certainly. Not just a warm body for the night but for, potentially, many nights. Not just a superficial connection but a shot at a deep, lasting love, the kind he'd never honestly believed in until he got a taste for it just by being near Jim. But in the likely event that it didn't work out? He'd be homeless, jobless, subjectless, best-friendless. It was more than he was willing to stake.

Simon had taken pity on Trudy and was trying to explain how it might behove her to split, and she was listening with an unconvinced frown. Blair came up behind her, so close that Jim, in her place, would have felt his heat, and murmured, "Hit."

She turned, startled, and laughed. "Hi, you!"

"Oh, great, you're back," said Simon. He turned away to tend to another game.

"Where did you run off to?" Trudy asked.

"You'll get a kick out of this," said Blair. "Someone I used to have a thing for, out of the blue, apparently wants me all of a sudden."

"Wow," said Trudy. "Lucky you."

"Thanks."

"Well, thanks for letting me know."

"You're welcome," said Blair, feeling slightly disconcerted.

Simon made his way back to their part of the table with a newly topped-off drink. "Have you decided?"

She made a helpless noise, frozen with indecision by her pair of nines.

"Hit," said Blair confidently.

It was a spectacularly bad move, especially considering that he hadn't been counting, but she hadn't bet much, and if by some miracle it worked out, he'd look like a total stud. Lo and behold, Simon laid down at a three. Perfect twenty-one.

Trudy clapped her hands, delighted.

"What are you, a psychic now?" Simon grumbled.

"Just lucky," said Blair, winking. Too bad it was just at cards.

Unless there was some kind of generalized luck, and luck at cards was just predictive of that personal trait or cosmic force or some confluence of probabilistic factors... "Lucky you," Trudy had said, and yeah, he had to be pretty damn lucky, to get a shot at his ostensibly-straight object of yearning after all this time. He had to be lucky to have crossed paths with his Holy Grail in the first place. He was fantastically lucky that Jim had so wholeheartedly let him into his life.

"Excuse me," he said suddenly. "I have to go test a theory."

"Good night," said Trudy, pulling out her phone. "Have fun with your lady friend."

 

DOUBLE DOWN

Jim heard him in the hall and opened the door before he got the key to the lock.

"Blair," said Jim, at the same time as Blair said, "I need you to deal out the cards."

"About before," Jim began.

"Don't worry about it," said Blair, throwing his jacket onto a chair, and heading straight for the kitchen counter, where they'd left the remnants of the last game.

"Yeah, same," said Jim. "Just forget I said anything. Let's not, I don't want to screw this up."

Blair handed him the deck. "Shut up and deal."

Jim took the cards and shuffled, obviously relieved to be given a task that did not necessitate an emotional conversation. "What do you want to use for chips, pretzels?"

"No chips. Just win or lose."

Blair had decided on the stakes on the way home: win, and he'd throw caution to the wind and go for it, trusting his luck; lose, and he'd take the lesson to heart, and work with all his power to salvage and protect the friendship.

He couldn't tell Jim what he was doing, of course. He might throw the game, and he would definitely think it was stupid. It probably _was_ stupid. But Blair had no idea which way to go, here. If the universe wanted to tell him something, he needed to provide it a conduit. At the very least, this was as good a way as any to take the decision out of his own hands.

"You cheat," Jim pointed out.

"This time, I won't," said Blair. He needed this to be an honest game. He needed to know if the universe was on his side.

Jim finished shuffling and lifted a card off the top of the deck.

"Best two out of three," said Blair. He shouldn't be this nervous; he didn't even know which side he was rooting for.

Jim dealt Blair had a four and a nine. His own face-up card was an eight.

"Hit me," said Blair.

The universe had a sense of humor: the king of hearts. Blair felt his own heart sink. He so knew which side he was rooting for.

"Bust," said Jim, cheerful in his ignorance.

"Two out of three," Blair reminded.

In round two Blair got a queen and a five. Jim had the king of clubs. Three of the face cards were accounted for now, so the chances that he also had--wait, did this count as card-counting?

"What are you doing?" Jim prodded.

"Don't rush me," said Blair, then immediately, "Stay. I'm gonna stay." He was playing it cautious because he didn't want to bust again, but he immediately realized he was pretty much screwed. If Jim had anything higher than a five in the hole, he'd win, and if it was less, he'd hit and probably win. And that would be it, finito, game over.

He hit. Seven. Blair swallowed.

Jim overturned his card, and, great day in the morning, it was a five. Twenty-two. Twenty-two!

It was anyone's game now. Blair glanced at Jim. He had a businesslike expression, but his eyes were warm when they met Blair's. Tonight he'd offered himself to Blair and, in exchange, Blair had blown up, stormed out, come back, and insisted on a card game. And for some reason Jim still liked him.

And, god damn it, he was as sexy as ever. He'd taken off his jacket and tie, and his shirt was unbuttoned down to the hollow of his collarbone. Blair could win this, and then he could lick it. His heart pounded. His lips tingled. Hell, if Blair won this, he could tear those buttons off with his teeth. Lose those tailored black pants for sure, reveal that glorious cock, hold it in his hand, delicately kiss and lick the head. Tease those oft-dreamed-about, tightly-muscled ass cheeks apart and sink himself deep inside... For real. For real, and _tonight_.

Weirdly, Jim's body had never seemed more alien. Normally, Blair knew that at any time he wanted, he could reach out, hit Jim playfully, rub his arm, maybe push his luck a bit and give him a quick pat on the tummy. Now he couldn't do anything unless he really meant it.

He blinked down at his cards. Seven and ten. Jim had another king up.

"Hit," Blair said, his voice hoarse.

Three. Blair's breath caught in his throat. This was the closest he'd come to twenty-one all game, but a push wasn't that unlikely. Even if Jim didn't hit, there were plenty of face cards and tens left unaccounted for. If he had an ace in that hole, all was lost.

Jim didn't hit, but he paused with his hand on the hole card, searching Blair's face. There was a hint of a smile at the edge of his lips. Oh, God, he was going to win. Had already won, technically. He'd won and he was _happy_ about it, and that was the most heartbreaking part, right there.

Blair made a "please, please, please, just get on with it" face. Jim returned an "all right, all right, don't blow a gasket" face, and he flipped the card.

Eight. Only eight!

"Good ga--" Jim began, but he never got the word out, because Blair lunged.

Jim wasn't expecting to be yanked forward and kissed and for a moment there was a clash of teeth. Jim pulled to look at him, and Blair didn't know how he was going to answer any questions, but thankfully, Jim didn't say anything; just took Blair's face in his hands. Their mouths interlocked in one hasty, desperate kiss after another, and there was rhythm now, harmony.

It was distinctly strange to be kissing Jim. Strange and momentous. All of a sudden Blair couldn't believe he'd let it be decided by a card game. It had seemed so important in the moment, but now that he'd made the leap, and there was no turning back, let the chips fall where they may--now that he was, and he couldn't stress this enough, actually and in real life _kissing Jim_\--he just couldn't see how losing would have posed a serious obstacle. Or how winning made this a good idea.

He turned his head slightly, so that Jim was kissing the side of his mouth. "You know," he said, "the odds are against us here. This relationship."

"Mm," said Jim, uninterested.

"I have terrible handwriting," Blair warned wildly. "Complete chickenscratch."

"I know," said Jim. "We'll work around it."

Jim covered Blair's mouth, preventing any further protestation, and kissed him long and deep, languidly stroking Blair's tongue with his own, and running his fingers through Blair's curls. Blair felt a thrill zing through his body. Whatever might happen in the future, now was a damn good place to be.

Oh, boy. His fantasies were rapidly solidifying into a to-do list. And he had always been industrious in accomplishing his goals. He had free rein to touch as he pleased now and he couldn't take it in fast enough: the curve of Jim's back, his hips, his ass-- Jim made a little noise in his throat and pulled back for breath.

Then Blair stopped, remembering that this was Jim, here. He drew his hands back upward in a heavy caress. Resting his cheek against Jim's, he murmured, "Should we take things slow?"

"No," said Jim raggedly, and then Blair was laughing in surprise as Jim dragged him by the hand to the couch. He put his arms back around Blair and fell backward, pulling them both down.

Jim rested his arms across Blair's back and kissed him again, but Blair broke it, holding himself up with his palms against Jim's shoulders.

"You have no idea what you've unleashed here."

"Bring it," said Jim.

As soon as he'd finished speaking the words his head was tilted back and he was gasping as Blair pressed hard, bruising kisses down his neck. He flicked open the buttons of Jim's shirt and followed the trail of newly bared skin, hard with tense muscle and pouring off heat.

A second later he had the fly undone and then he paused, admiring Jim's cock. He'd caught glimpses before but he'd never seen it so completely hard, so completely ready. Blair had seen him more naked than this (hopping out of the shower or bed, or that one deeply weird moment on the oil rig) but he'd never seen look him so devastatingly sexy: draped over the couch, eyes closed, lips parted, shirt untucked and unbuttoned around kiss-swollen skin.

He half-opened his eyes and gazed suspiciously at Blair. "Getting back at me?"

"What?"

"For making you wait."

He wasn't--he'd just gotten caught up savoring--but he nonetheless responded with a slow-drawled "Maybe," accompanied with an evil smile. "Or maybe I'm," and without warning he dropped and took Jim's cock into his mouth as deeply as he could manage. Somewhere above him Jim gave a sharp grunt of surprise, and then, "Mmmm."

He intended to take his time. He wanted to pleasure Jim thoroughly, to worship him with his tongue. But his own erection was shoved up against Jim's leg and the cushion and at some point one of his hands drifted down there as well, and he worked himself into an enthusiastic rhythm. Jim didn't seem to mind in the least; he rocked his hips (and, wonderfully, his leg, although the jury was out on whether that was on purpose), first matching his speed, then urging him on harder and faster, until he moaned out, "Buh, _honey_," and came against the roof of his mouth. Blair sat up and swayed, feeling dizzy and very warm.

While Jim lay heaving breaths, Blair cozied up and nestled against his sweaty, exhausted body. Jim slipped his hands automatically and lazily around to Blair's waistband, but Blair steadied them, saying, "Plenty of time, there's plenty of time," because that sounded nicer than "Yeah, no, I'm going to want you at your peak performance" or "It's cool, I've already kind of taken the edge off."

Jim murmured a vague assent and shifted his arms to hold Blair in a gentle hug, cradling him as naturally as if they'd done this a hundred times. Blair rested his head against Jim's shoulder, closed his eyes, and inhaled the familiar scents of the loft. Woolen blankets from Peru. Wood smoke. The sweat of an upstanding defender of the city, taxed with the labors of the day. A hint of vanilla.

"I can't believe I almost passed this up," said Blair.

"But you didn't," said Jim, tightening his embrace.

"I didn't," Blair agreed, snuggling closer.

"What changed your mind?"

"Um," Blair said sheepishly. "I decided to leave it up to the cards."

"What--the game? Good grief," said Jim. "Really?"

"It's, it was a thing," said Blair. Then, "It made sense at the time."

"Well," Jim mused, "at least it wasn't tarot."

"At least I won!" said Blair. "It was looking pretty touch and go there for awhile. I didn't cheat or anything."

"I don't know whether to feel better or worse about that."

"I beat the odds!" Blair declared joyfully. Suddenly ready for round two, he shifted, pushing himself under Jim's weight. Jim got the message; he pinned Blair down, smiled crookedly at him for a second, and then ducked forward and sucked in his lower lip, briefly but hard.

"And you said the house always wins," said Blair.

Jim laughed. "You don't think I won?"

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for TS Slash Fications Round Four. The prompts were pairs of episode titles from supernatural and cop shows; mine were "Frame Up" (NCIS) and "The House Always Wins" (Angel), although I only ended up using "The House Always Wins." But, you know, I used it pretty hard.
> 
> What would I do without yolsaffbridge? This is yet another story where she was able to suggest an entirely new, better emotional underpinning for the events I had written, transforming this into a story that I truly liked. The last line (the clincher!) is hers.
> 
> Thanks also to the speedy and perspicacious erda, for reading multiple drafts of this story, and providing encouragement, enthusiasm, and edits. The three E's!
> 
> Thanks, finally, to someone who will not see this, my nonslashy tactical genius friend sliceydicey, who explained how blackjack works. Any remaining mistakes in the description of the gameplay are my own.


End file.
